[Gaius Valerius Verrens 05] - Enemy of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  He’d walked five paces when at the very edge of his consciousness he registered a conversation between his guards. ‘Look, it’s moving.’ The words were Milo’s, reliable and never jumpy, but now patently shaken by what he saw.

  ‘Maggots,’ came the dismissive reply from Julius, the decurion. ‘You always get maggots in a pit, stands to reason. All those flies.’

  ‘No,’ Milo insisted. ‘It’s moving. Fuck …’

  Valerius only reacted when he heard the whispered song of a sword clearing its scabbard. He spun, reaching for the gladius on his right hip. And froze. The sight that confronted him sent a spear point of superstitious dread down his spine and he almost cried out. A bloodied arm reached up from between a pair of corpses. A scarlet dome of a head broke from the surface of the pit, as if Hades was giving birth to some single-headed spawn of Cerberus. For a moment, the head stayed motionless as if considering its new surroundings, then it shook and growled like a dog, snorted to catch its first breath and let out an enormous roar that transformed the dog into a lion.

  Julius stood by the edge of the pit, his face white as parchment and his sword raised. Milo had a pilum in his big fist ready to throw.

  ‘No!’ Valerius cannoned into the legionary just as the javelin left his hand, flying wide to impale a body less than a foot from its target, who had somehow managed to force himself waist high in the sea of bodies. The would-be corpse’s eyes bulged like duck eggs in the gore-stained mask of his face and his body shook with fury. ‘If that fornicating spear had found its mark, Roman, my shade would have haunted your dreams for all eternity and a bit fucking longer. As it is, I will be your living nightmare unless you help me out of this offal.’

  The threat was directed at Milo and the man in the pit blinked as he noticed Valerius for the first time. Bizarrely, he raised his free hand to his chest in salute. ‘Serpentius of Avala, headquarters section of the Seventh, reporting for duty, tribune.’

  Valerius wondered that he didn’t die of shock. ‘Don’t just stand there gaping like idiots, get something to pull him out.’ He ran to the edge of the pit, grinning like a moonstruck schoolboy, his heart soaring at the sight of the bloodied figure. He shook his head. ‘What kind of fool spends the night in a mass grave?’

  Serpentius struggled to suppress a grin of his own. ‘The kind of fool who volunteers for a suicide mission and gets his skinny Spanish arse trapped behind enemy lines with the promise of a spear up it if he’s caught.’ He snorted and spat a gob of something red. ‘When I first went in I was only under one body, but they kept putting more of the bastards on top and I could barely move. I thought I might not get out before they got round to filling the pit in.’

  Valerius shuddered at the image. But he had to ask. ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Cold,’ the Spaniard admitted. ‘But sometimes the company of the dead is preferable to the company of the living.’

  XXV

  They caught up with the leading elements of the Seventh Galbiana three miles from Cremona. The terrain became more accommodating the closer they came to the city, and the men of the Seventh marched over firm ground to avoid the chaos on the road. Wreckage from enemy baggage trains, abandoned weapons and the discarded belongings of camp followers obstructed the causeway. Valerius noticed a new spirit of confidence in his legionaries. Already exhilarated by the fumes of what had seemed an unlikely victory, the sight of their foes’ retreating backs gave new energy to weary legs. They knew they’d achieved something remarkable and they sensed that one last effort would bring them ultimate victory and never to be forgotten glory. They were eager to finish the job.

  Marcus Antonius Primus halted his army just short of the city. In the commander’s headquarters tent Valerius struggled to keep his eyes open as the other legates gathered. For him, battle had always been a place where danger and proximity to death seemed to multiply the living essence. Sometimes when he fought, Valerius swore he could have called Mars kin, but he had a feeling this battle had taken a toll like no other; a diminishing of self as if an inner fire was dying. Primus was as tired as any of his soldiers, the very flesh seeming to hang wearily from the bones of his face. Yet despite days in the saddle, the general’s eyes radiated a messianic zeal that no amount of exhaustion could extinguish.

  ‘Our scouts report the enemy has strengthened his defences immeasurably in the past few weeks.’ Primus addressed the legates of his five legions around a hastily fashioned sand table modelled to produce a crude likeness of Cremona and its surroundings. ‘They have expanded the ring of camps around the city, added lines of palisades and ditches here, here and here,’ he leaned across and pointed to a series of scores to the east of the city, ‘and filled them with the usual horrors. Sixteen towers dominate the most vulnerable stretches, armed alternately with scorpiones and onagri, and sited to provide crossing fire. We will undoubtedly face heavy catapults of the kind the Seventh’ – Valerius acknowledged his bow – ‘dealt with so efficiently, but they will be more difficult to reach.’ For a moment the general’s voice faltered and he looked to each of the men in the tent as if trying to draw strength from them. Eventually, he shook his head and found the will to continue. ‘Altogether a formidable obstacle, gentlemen. True, these entrenchments will be filled by legions who have been thinned by our efforts, but they will fight, and it is clear we must oblige them. The question is how?’

  ‘My men are exhausted.’ Every eye turned to Numisius Lupus, commander of Eighth Augusta. ‘I do not say that they cannot fight,’ he explained hastily. ‘They see their enemy and itch to be at him so I must struggle to control their enthusiasm.’ His words were greeted with a murmur of accord from commanders who had experienced the same eagerness. ‘My doubt is whether they have the strength, or the will, to entrench a camp of our own, and create suitable defences against an enemy capable of sortieing from Cremona to destroy us while we dig.’

  ‘You think we should besiege the city?’ Primus asked quietly.

  Lupus’s eyes showed consternation. ‘Do we have any other choice?’

  ‘Certainly we have choices,’ Vedius Aquila interjected impatiently, ‘unpalatable though they be. We could withdraw to Bedriacum and recover our strength while we await reinforcements from Syria.’

  ‘And throw away everything we have won?’ Primus’s tone was mild enough, but the Thirteenth’s legate bridled defensively at the implication of defeatism.

  ‘I am speaking hypothetically, of course,’ he growled. ‘A mere listing of the options. But what is the alternative to siege or withdrawal? It would be folly to attack Cremona with exhausted troops. We would need every man to assault these walls, with not even a few thousand ragged Praetorians in reserve.’

  ‘Folly perhaps,’ Primus conceded. ‘But I believe it is our only option.’

  The tent went very still, and Valerius was reminded of the depthless silence of an African night.

  Primus turned to him. ‘You think me impulsive, Gaius Valerius Verrens? No,’ he raised a hand, ‘do not deny it.’ A smile flickered on his thin lips. ‘It is true that my impetuousness has brought us here, to the brink of victory or defeat, depending on your point of view. But my belief is based not on my desire to close with the enemy, but on the facts as I see them.’ He frowned and bowed his head as if he were considering those facts; lining them up, then repositioning them like a carpenter contemplating the best way to approach a complex piece of work. Eventually, he had them where he wanted them and he looked up to meet his subordinates’ doubting eyes. ‘Time is running short, but I will outline my reasoning. We cannot starve the defenders without starving ourselves. Our foraging parties range far and wide between the mountains and the sea and still return empty-handed, because our enemy has prudently stripped the countryside to provision the city. To eat, we must first fight. You say your soldiers are exhausted, Numisius? I agree. They are approaching the very limits of their endurance. Yet their howls for the blood of the Vitellians remain undiminished. My question is not
can we fight but can we afford not to fight? It is they – our soldiers – even more than I, who have driven us here. It is you, the legates of my legions, who have lost control of them. If I ordered these men to return to Bedriacum they would like as not cry “traitor” and kill me, and you too, Aquila.’ He shook his head. ‘It would be folly to attack at these odds? No, it would be folly to waste their precious energy digging ditches. They have one last fight in them. We must make the best use of it. My message to your soldiers is this: you are hungry? Cremona is our granary. Take Cremona and you will eat your fill – aye, and a surfeit of loot and women too. You are sick of civil war? Then finish it. Here and now. One cast of the dice. One final effort. For Rome and Vespasian.’

  ‘For Rome and Vespasian!’ The four legates echoed his words and Valerius was astonished at the change Primus had wrought since they entered the tent. Then, they had looked like defeated men despite their recent victory, cowed by the odds facing them and the seemingly insurmountable logistical problems that plagued their legions. Yet in one brief piece of genius their commander had negated their concerns. The facts remained unchanged, but the situation was entirely different. He had shown them that only a single course of action was open to them. The decision was no longer theirs. The men wanted to be at their enemy and nothing would change their minds. If they wanted to fight they must be given their wish.

  ‘Your orders, general?’

  Primus smiled grimly. ‘We will pause only long enough to allow the artillery to come up, and to furnish the engineers with sufficient siege equipment to make the assault practicable. Aquila? Your eager Thirteenth are furthest forward as always. When you are ready, array them before the Brixia gate and tempt them with what lies within. Fulvus and Verrens? Third Gallica and Seventh Galbiana will concentrate on the eastern defences to the south of the causeway. Eighth Augusta and Seventh Claudia will invest the walls on the northern side. Varus?’ He called his cavalry commander forward. ‘Take ten squadrons and five cohorts of auxilia and come at them from the west. It is a feint, no more, but you must appear dangerous enough to keep their attention. Do you understand?’ Varus nodded, the knowledge that he still had much to prove written plain on his face.

  The commanders filed out, but Valerius held back. Primus looked up from the sand table. ‘You still have concerns, Verrens?’

  Valerius hesitated. ‘You outlined the situation admirably, general. Win, or die trying. What could be clearer? The kind of simple command a soldier likes.’ Primus’s eyes took on a dangerous look: was he being mocked? But Valerius ignored the threat. ‘My concern is with Cremona. It was my impression that the Emperor’s express wish was that no harm should come to the populace unless they took up arms directly against him.’ He pointed to the table. ‘It appears the defence of Cremona is entirely in the hands of Vitellian legions who gave the people of the city no chance to flee.’

  ‘And I am encouraging my soldiers to treat them as enemies?’

  ‘It is …’

  The colour rose in Primus’s cheeks. ‘You are wearing your lawyer’s cloak again, or perhaps your friend Titus is using you as a mouthpiece. Is that it? I could dismiss your concerns with a single lawyerly word: semantics. The people of Cremona supported Aulus Vitellius from the first. They fed, armed and aided his soldiers. Have they taken up arms directly against the forces of Titus Flavius Vespasian? I do not know. But I also do not know they have not.’ He sighed, and his voice lost its certainty. ‘But that is not the issue here. Not even the fate of thousands of …’ a shrug of what, impatience? Regret? ‘Very well, let us call them innocents. The issue is victory and saving perhaps hundreds of thousands of lives by ending this war now. My legions are tired, Valerius. Yes, they have one last fight in them. If I thought they did not I would not attempt this whether their blood was up or no. But strength and will can only take them so far. They need something more tangible than a cause to fight for. Something real. The storehouses of Cremona and the hunger in their bellies are real. The answer to everything lies beyond those ramparts and palisades and walls, and they will take them or die in the attempt. If they succeed have I the right to snatch the fruits of victory away from them?’ He met Valerius’s eye. ‘I promise you that if there is another option, I will take it. That must be enough for you. Cremona is the tethered goat to attract the wolf, Valerius, and the truth is that without that lure I fear my legions may not be strong enough to take the city.’

  He turned back to the mound of papers on his campaign desk and Valerius saluted, knowing there was nothing else to say. Cremona was the goat to attract the wolf? Serpentius would tell him that things seldom turned out well for the goat.

  XXVI

  ‘Caecina Alienus is a traitor to Rome.’ Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus’s powerful voice echoed from the walls of the Senate House and he accompanied his words with a contemptuous wave of the hand that won cheers from the packed benches. ‘He is a betrayer and a coward. By his actions he has threatened the stability of the Empire.’

  Looking down on his senators from his golden throne, Vitellius acknowledged inwardly that the Empire’s stability at the time of Caecina’s gross betrayal was questionable at the very least. Still, he didn’t let the thought alter the expression on his pendulous, sweating countenance.

  ‘I applaud the decisive action taken by our loyal officers of Fifth Alaudae. The betrayer is made captive and will be held until he can be brought before this house, tried for his perfidious crimes and put to death in a manner fit for a traitor.’

  More cheers and a few gruesome suggestions as to the technical details of that death, including some from senators Vitellius would gladly see sacrificed in Caecina’s place. He’d long suspected Caecina’s weakness, his ambition and his want of loyalty, but this? A full-scale attempt to defect to the enemy with the legions under his command? Was the man mad? Vitellius had made Caecina a consul of Rome. When the war was won, Caecina might rightfully have expected to be handed a province that he could pluck like a plum. A province that would enrich his family for generations. Of course, he would never be heir; Valens would not stand for it. In any case, he’d made it plain the Empire would go to his son when he was ready. But surely that was not enough to cause Caecina’s defection? Why had he given it all up? The question had plagued Vitellius since news of the betrayal arrived. Now the possible answer turned the glistening beads of sweat on his forehead into a stream that dripped from his cheeks to soak into the folds of his toga. Did Caecina know something that Vitellius did not? Was the enemy so strong he was certain he could not win? No, he would not accept that. Valens insisted the legions in the field outnumbered those of Marcus Antonius Primus by two to one. Victory was certain as long as those legions were commanded by the right man. But Valens was struck down by illness and Vitellius had had no choice but to send Caecina. He’d issued strict orders to the young general to delay until Valens joined him. Instead, the deceitful bastard had taken the army north. Yet a further contradiction now perplexed him. Caecina had placed his legions in a position of strength, at Hostilia, where they threatened Primus’s flanks. With one swift move across the river he would have forced the arrogant swindler to run back to Pannonia with his tail between his legs. So why, on the very brink of victory and eternal fame, did he turn against those who elevated him? Vitellius could only think it was some want of character; a genuine cowardice or a lack of self-confidence in a man who appeared confident to the point of caricature. And then there was the wife, Salonina. Galeria Fundana had identified her as a scheming, conniving bitch on their first meeting. He pictured the slim, lithe figure lying naked in bed whispering into the traitor’s ear. Well, he would have her head as well.

  He realized belatedly that he was the focus of an expectant hush, and, with the glare of a man who’d been contemplating his adversary’s awful death, resumed his onslaught. ‘We have taken steps to ensure the renegade’s absence will have no effect on our campaign against the misguided rabble sent to their deaths by the arch-t
raitor Vespasian. Our faithful and honourable subject, the ever-victorious General Gaius Fabius Valens, is even now on his way to take command of our Army of the North. With ten legions – yes, I say ten legions – he will crush Vespasian’s rabble to dust.’ He saw some concerned looks and knew they were asking themselves why it required ten legions to defeat a ‘misguided rabble’. To explain might be seen as a sign of indecision, but a moment of enlightenment dawned. ‘Once they have stamped out the rebellion on Rome’s soil they will move into Pannonia and Moesia and restore our authority in those provinces. They will provide a base to advance on to Syria, Egypt and Africa and wipe out the stain on Rome’s honour that is Titus Flavius Vespasian.’

  It was a masterstroke. If there was one thing the venal, corrupt and arrogant occupants of the cushioned marble benches of the Senate understood it was ambition and revenge. The applause almost lifted the roof off that venerable building. For the first time, more so even than on his triumphant, nervous entry into the city, Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus truly felt like the Emperor of Rome. They followed him into the street and cheered him through the Forum, and the mob who had congregated on the steps of the basilicas and temples joined them. But by the time Vitellius was carried by his bearers to the steps of the Golden House the familiar emptiness had returned. Not emptiness of spirit, emptiness of stomach. Success was clearly good for the appetite. He visualized the banquet he would order his cooks to prepare and a groan of pure pleasure began in his stomach and sang from his throat. Which left only one decision: what delicacy would fill the time until the first course arrived?